


Both Are In My Favour

by Luciiferous



Category: Final Fantasy XIV
Genre: Body Dysphoria, Character Death, Chronic Pain, Ficlet Collection, Gen, Generally Inoffensive Fluff, M/M, Not Exactly First Times, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Polyamory, Some angst, Trans Male Character
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-06-02
Updated: 2019-11-05
Packaged: 2020-04-06 12:49:05
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 2,017
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19063030
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Luciiferous/pseuds/Luciiferous
Summary: Glimpses at the lives of three fools-- some from the past, few from the present and a scarce sum from the future. Bleak and lively, joyous and hateful; no matter the weather they are bound in love, and life, and death.(Tags to be added as chapters are. Kinda just slapping spaghetti at the wall here.)





	1. Questions and Answers

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A debate long discussed between the Deciples of War and Deciples of Magic is rehashed. Estinien threatens animal cruelty on the way to Anyx Trine.
> 
> chapter rating: G

Curiosity, in Estinien's experience, often led to trouble more than anything useful. The risk was oftentimes not worth the answer. But there were times that not even he could hold his tongue indefinitely, and it seems that trudging through Dravania for weeks on end has worn thin his last threads of patience.

“I have a question.”

Az'a Nazzeyn, the self-proclaimed leader of their merry band and the only one still keeping pace with him (though not for want of stamina), flicks his long ears and responds, “Hm? What's that?”

“Why do mages always wear such… Flimsy robes.” The terrain begins to slope upwards, rocks loose and jagged under their soles. Estinien tries to mind his breathing, keeping the exertion from his voice. “Would it not make more sense to wear even a  _ little _ armour?”

Az'a seems tireless by comparison. Certainly energetic enough for Estinien to regret provoking him. “Robes are comfortable,” he replies, flippant.

“Sure, but armour keeps you  _ alive." _

“Be that as it may, I have a hard enough time concentrating in the midsts of a battle without my fur getting caught in chainmail.” With a hand of claws, he waves Estinien's wisdom off. “And I dislike having to wear such bulky, restrictive plating anyway. It feels too… Confining.”

“Aren't you basically rooted to the ground when you're casting?” Estinien points out. “That seems far more  _ confining _ .”

“Yes, but my point still stands. The less I have to think about, including any chafing or tugging, the more I can concentrate on my spellcasting.” The miqo'te then flashes him a grin, his fangs distractingly prominent. “And besides, wouldn't you rather wear a nightgown at all times if you could get away with it?”

Estinien rolls his eyes and scoffs. “Actually, I find my armour to be far more comfortable than… that.” A beat of silence passes before the need to justify himself wins out; “I'm protected from from any surprise attacks. I needn't worry about preparing for the next battle if I'm already armed and ready. You can never know where the next assault will come from, or when; especially when you're dealing with foes who fly.”

“So it's about being impervious to attack, then?” Az'a responds, his expression changing into something sly and dangerous. He reaches over, runs a finger across the seams in Estinien's armour before carefully hooking a claw between the plates. “Unless of course, one were to sneak in a lucky hit between these--”

His wrist is seized in a bruising grip, but it doesn't seem to deter his mood much.

Estinien hisses a vicious warning, “Don't do that.”

“Sensitive, are we?” Az'a replies, allowing his wrist to be thrown aside. He then brings his claws up his chin instead, scratching his beard with an almost pensive look, though mischief still dances madly in his eyes. “Hm… The mind wanders to consider what other sensitive folds one might fing--”

All thoughts of exhaustion gone, Estinien gives chase, his rage almost palpable.


	2. Enough, For Now

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Limitations are pushed; Estinien finds himself still wanting, but it's not so torturous. Pre-Eye-theft days, when they didn't know how bad it could get yet.
> 
> chapter rating: E

Aymeric's hands are heavy on him. Steady and stern, they hold him down, keep him still. Estinien can feel the rough pads of his fingertips and palms scratching along the bare skin of his thigh, the cap of his knee; nobleman's hands worn rough by the hilt of a sword. But more distracting still is his mouth-- hot and heady, buried between his legs with the hunger of a hearth fire.

It's maddening. The sensation had started off enticing enough; his body clearly longed for some attention of this nature, hesitant touches sparking waves of pleasure through his hips, up his spine, down to his toes. But now-- as every time before-- that seductive spark has turned into an all too active current of energy. He had been pushing himself to bear it ever so slightly longer, to grit his teeth and simply get on with it, but he feels his limit is rapidly approaching… And not in the way Aymeric was striving for.

"Ah-- stop, stop," He commands, unable to catch himself before he reflexively kicks at Aymeric's shoulder. " _ Stop." _

He stops, catching Estinien's leg before he can do any more damage. When Aymeric meets his eyes, it's clear that Estinien has had enough. Sympathy and patience warm his gaze-- with a small kiss to the bone of his captured shin, Aymeric eases his legs off his shoulders and back to the sheets. His hands trace along the sides of his slender hips, coming to rest upon his waist as Aymeric moves further up the mattress.

"Too much?" He asks.

"Yes," Estinien admits.

"That's alright, we can stop here."

It’s not as if Estinien  _ doesn’t _ want this-- he very much does, it’s only that he can never let himself relax enough to follow through with the act. Even the gentlest stimulation gets to be too intense after a few short minutes. He can’t be sure why he reacts so violently, but of everything they’ve tried, this has been the most tolerable by far.

Which isn’t a high bar to pass. So many options have already been ruled out on principle alone, and others proved too painful to continue with. Learning how to be intimate without being in total control was proving to be more of a challenge than he had anticipated, and for once, it wasn't  _ only _ his pride getting in the way.

All the same, sheer curiosity had him coming back to try time and time again. He didn't want to admit that he was embarrassed, but to be in his twenties and still never reached any kind of climax…? It was well past due.

"You did really well," Aymeric praises him, laying off to the side and drawing him close. Their bare skin pressed flush together, Estinien reminds himself that this, too, had once been a source of discomfort. Now the touch of Aymeric's body felt as natural as his own-- even somewhat  _ nice _ . It was a small victory, but a significant one.

Estinien clicks his tongue, dismissive. "Not well enough."

"You'll get there."

"Hm."

Estinien turns his face away as best he can, burying it in Aymeric's bruised shoulder. He feels steady hands tracing up the ridges of his spine, cradling the back of his head.  _ This _ is perfect, this is what he wishes all of intimacy could feel like.

And maybe-- in time, with patience-- it would.

Shifting his leg brings to light the state of Aymeric's own desires, as he brushes against the underside of a most obvious erection and elicits a sharp gasp, a sudden jolt. Estinien huffs a laugh against his skin, gradually applying pressure until he rolls atop his now-prone body. Still flush together, chests and abdomens slick with sweat, Estinien manages to worm a hand of his own between the two of them. His fingers leave a tickling trail in their wake as they journey down, down, down--

"You don't have to," Aymeric gasps between stunted breaths. Estinien covers his parted lips with his own, taking his member in hand with all the ease and expertise one could expect from a spear-wielder.

"I don't," he agrees, beginning to work the familiar flesh in long, practiced strokes. This is what he knows, what he is accustomed to. "But I want to."

He can taste himself on Aymeric's lips and finds this revelation a bit disturbing. But from his reactions, it seems that Aymeric feels entirely the opposite; fingers clenched in rumpled sheets, his eyebrows draw together so tightly that it leaves deep creases between them. Estinien leans over, kisses the spot softly-- and chuckles at the way Aymeric groans against the hollow of his neck.

In spite of his own difficulties receiving such attention, he knows well how to administer it. Settling into his better-known role, he moves with confidence, quick to strike at the heart of Aymeric’s needs. Though they may have only started their sinful affairs little more than a year ago, he had always been a quick learner. As such, it doesn’t take long before Aymeric has abandoned all thoughts of chivalry; rutting into Estinien’s hand with open want, his soft-spoken moans fill the room like a forbidden psalm.

And for his part, Estinien lets a warmth of tentative affection flood into his chest; allows himself to believe in the possibility of a simpler life, a love unrestricted by duty or circumstance. It isn’t any kind of conventional climax-- but emotionally, it’s the equivalent of leaping off some disallowed edge. A momentary release of the bonds he has crafted for himself, an instance of pure, unrestrained  _ hope _ in some idyllic future.

Maybe that’s all he’s prepared for at the moment. Crossing that sense of relief and trust into the physical realm was still a step too far, and that’s without considering his physical limitations, the boundaries of which they had barely begun to push. He has far to go, much to learn… But it’s a slow process, frustrating as that may be.

Aymeric’s release stains his hand with sticky, white rivulets. Uncaring of the mess, Estinien splays his palm wide in the center of Aymeric’s abdomen, grinning at the way his muscles clench tight. They share a breathless laugh between them, foreheads pressed together, limbs in a lazy tangle.

This isn’t everything it could be, but it’s enough.


	3. Riddle Games (p.1)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Taking advantage of a moment of weakness. Tactitions can never be trusted to play fair.
> 
> Chapter rating: G

Naught but the crackle of fire could be heard in the Borel manor’s drawing room, only seldom broken by the turning of pages, the whisper of a slow breath. Silent as the snowfall outside, Aymeric lounged half-dozing on a well-worn couch, eyes glazing over his book’s pages as sleep crept over his mind. Marie— his ancient, snow-white coeurl and ever-present companion on such a cold, quiet evening— had already succumbed to rest long ago; the rhythmic rise and fall of her chest atop his own was mesmerizing.

But of course, such peace could not last for long.

A cacophonous bang sent a jolt of panic through Aymeric’s body, causing Marie to scatter into some darkened corner of the room and the book he had been reading to go flying out of his hands. The cause of such commotion was, of course, none other than Az’a— who had thrown wide the (rather heavy) wooden door such that it bounced against the wall and proceeded to exclaim, “I have a new one!”

It took a few moments for Aymeric to understand what on earth he was talking about. But after a couple blinks of his bleary eyes, it returned to him— it was a game they had been playing on and off for some moons now, a means of keeping their time occupied and wits sharp. A riddle game. And it could be suns upon suns before one had a sufficient retort to the other’s challenge— this particular instance, it had taken Az’a nearly a week.

Still somewhat unsteady from his abrupt wake-up call, Aymeric swayed a little where he stood, putting fingers to his forehead as he said, “Alright then, what is it?”

“What has a head and a tail, but no body?”

It was simple— far more than their previous riddles. Aymeric would even think it childish compared to Az’a’s usual conundrums, but try as he might, the answer still eluded him.

“... A snake?” He hazarded, and Az’a shook his head with a grin. “Come on, I think there’s an argument to be made there.”

“I take the stance that the snake has more body than either head or tail. Try again.”

A defeated sigh answered his demand. Sparing a glance at where his discarded book had landed, Aymeric admitted, “I haven’t the faintest idea,” far too exhausted to continue his attempts.

It was then Az’a triumphantly exclaimed, “A coin!”

“... Oh that’s terrible. I would’ve gotten that if I were not half asleep.”

“Ah, but you didn’t.” Az’a reminded him with a wag of one clawed finger, a playful swish of his tail. Aymeric would almost certainly figure out later that he had taken advantage of such a moment simply because he was stumped for something better— but a victory is a victory all the same. “Ball’s in your court, my dear.”


End file.
